


Silence

by Pequod (avanc)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 11:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16891569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avanc/pseuds/Pequod
Summary: Till goes sightseeing and Paul tags along.





	Silence

**Author's Note:**

> For those anticipating an update to ["How To Lose A Fight"]() ...I have broken my laptop. Ruined. Utterly destroyed. Annihilated. Smashed the fuck out of. Have also bashed my external hard drive, which the doc is stored on. Not sure I will be able to post the promised update and am working the issue. Therefore, as I wait for a replacement, I offer this little fic as a band aid. 
> 
> This was written many years ago for S, who is peerless.
> 
> Edit: typos

"What are you planning to do on your days off?" Paul asked.

Till tossed his book aside with an irritated slap of paper on wood. "Sightseeing."

"What sights?"

"Do you care?"

There was a long pause while Paul groped for a good answer. "...yes."

"No, you don't."

"I should."

"But you don't. And you always ask to go along anyway, and it's pointless." Till sighed and sipped his coffee. He gave Paul a weary, parental glare over the rim of his mug.

"I'm sorry." Paul waited for an acceptance of his apology. When none was forthcoming, he pressed on. "Where are you going?"

"Abbey."

"Oh. I hadn't thought of you as the religious sort."

Till glared at him. "You don't have to be religious to go to ruins, and I've been to an abbey before, if you'll recall." He'd sung with monks, strictly as voice training, but Paul's selective memory seemed to have skipped that incident.

"Oh, right, the monastery," Paul said after a very long pause.

"Mmm," said Till. The peace and calm of the place had moved him, as had the realisation of how many men had devoted their lives to God there. Somehow, he'd thought them all to be fakes before; but after meeting them, respecting them, he'd almost wanted to become a monk. Till remembered lying in clean sheets, wrapped round by utter silence, smelling the lavender that had been left on his pillow and wanting to be capable of their devotion. 

The heavy robes had been intriguing. Till had asked to touch them, and the brother showing him around the grounds had invited Till to touch his cowl and sleeves. Till had first tentatively brushed with his fingertips, feeling the fibres catch on his rough skin. Then, he'd rubbed it between his fingers in curiosity. It was soft, so dark brown that it was nearly black, and very thick. It would rest solidly on the wearer's shoulders; and it would caress a man and hold him down to earth. In mute fascination, he'd run his hand over the monk's shoulder, and then down his chest.

Lips parted, he'd unconsciously been open-mouthed in fascination. The monk had smiled kindly and said, "If that's how you feel about it, I wouldn't recommend becoming a monk."

Till had stared stupidly at him. "What do you mean?"

The monk slid a gentle hand down Till's cheek, and Till had pressed into the caress. "That," said the monk.

Till had stumbled away in confusion to lie in bed, drunk on smuggled vodka. There had been, perhaps by design, an extra cassock in the closet, as if put there for him to consider. He'd spread it out over his knees and caressed the fabric, but it didn't smell of much. He'd sought the monk out the next morning and begged him for counsel. 

Kneeling in the garden, sobbing, aching for something, he'd fallen asleep on a bench with his face pressed against his minder's leg. It was the smell of wool and male that he'd been wanting; and it wasn't God or priesthood that would fix him.

He was still thinking about it, about how many times he'd come, gasping, into his hand with the cassock wadded up in his arms, when Paul shouted him back into the present. 

"Till! When you're done woolgathering, I want to go with you."

Till sighed. "You'll be bored within ten minutes." He wasn't sure what he wanted to do there himself, only that he wanted to spend time among the ruins. He'd been desperately getting off for weeks at the simple thought of a monk's hand sliding down his cheek. "Paul, I need time to think. To sit. I want to be alone with it."

"I can leave you alone."

"You always say that, but you don't. You're incapable of leaving anyone alone. Ever." Till was getting surprisingly huffy.

"I want to come along, that's all, and I swear on my honour that I won't pester you." Paul said. He couldn't have explained why, but he felt compelled to accompany Till. 

Till acquiesced, as he always did, and didn't say much else. He never did say much anyway, and he let Paul load his rucksack into the car without speaking.

The countryside passed in silence, which was normal for Till and painful for Paul. A few times, Paul tried to start a conversation and received only grunts in return. 

"So where are we going?"

"An abbey," said Till, who then lapsed back into silence. Till knew his way around the north of England much better than Paul would have thought possible. Then again, Till knew his way around Costa Rica too. And Japan. And Canada. 

"Hedges!" Paul said when they started winding through narrow country lanes. "Sheep!"

"Yup." Till was still irked, and trying not to show it.

"More sheep!"

"Yes."

It was a long drive, and Till wasn't any more in the mood to talk at the end of it than he had been at the beginning.

As they wound down the final hill, stones came into view — warm sandstone lit by the sun arced and jutted against the sky. 

"Ooh, what's that?" Paul said, wriggling in his seat to get a better look. 

"Abbey," Till said. He pulled into a tiny lot next to a whitewashed pub and got out without a word. "I'm going to go check in."

"You're staying here?"

"Do you see anywhere else to stay?" Till's boots crunched in the gravel as he pulled out his duffel bag, which clanked suspiciously.

"No! That's the problem. There's nothing here!" Paul bounced on his toes. Besides the inn, there were a few scattered farms and a lot of fields full of even more sheep.

"Abbey," Till said, and jerked his thumb at the ruins. The corner of his mouth twitched in a fleeting smile.

That smile was enough to remind Paul of why he'd wanted to come along in the first place. He shouldered his bag and followed Till.

The pub was picturesque: gleaming white with black trim and large, paned windows. Ivy and trailing vines climbed up the walls and over the fences, and there were pots and beds of greenery everywhere in the garden. There was even a small bower. Paul gawked until he tripped over an uneven paving stone, and felt Till's big hand grab his arm and haul him along.

The prices on the menu were painful, and the selection of beers was delightful. There were, it turned out, only three rooms, and all of them were booked. Till was annoyed, and trying to hide it, at the thought of his peace and quiet being stolen. "They don't have an available room, Landers."

"That's okay. I'll take the sofa."

"There isn't one. I asked for a cot and they're digging one up."

"Oh. That sounds uncomfortable."

"I'm sure it will be." The corner of Till's mouth twitched again.

The room was relaxing. It looked out over the ruins across the road; and the bed was a massive, antique four poster affair that probably hadn't left the upstairs of the inn for a few hundred years. The floor was ancient, creaking wood, covered in well-worn oriental rugs. Till was hanging his trousers in the armoire when the cot arrived. 

It was unpleasantly small, and appeared to be an army surplus from the second world war. It, too, looked like it hadn't left the pub attic for decades. Paul frowned. Till smirked and opened a bottle of tonic, then produced gin, and downed a double in long gulps. Then, he took out a battered book that Paul often saw him with, and pocketed his key. "Enjoy yourself, Paul."

"What? Wait! You're leaving?" Paul had been sadly examining his accommodations. The bed, even with Till in it, would be big enough for two, and Paul had been thinking of wheedling his way into half of it. 

"I'm going to see the abbey. It's why I'm here, after all. Bum around, Paul. Drink. Amuse yourself." Till clomped down the stairs. Paul could hear him talking with the barman, and then he was gone. A moment later, Paul saw him walk across the road, carrying a picnic basket. Then, Till vanished behind a crumbling stone wall.

It was warmer, and the stout breeze was barely a whisper behind the stone. There was no one else wandering the vast field full of ruins, so Till put the basket down and wandered about. There was a lone bull standing in the field behind the abbey, and it seemed pleasantly awed at the scenery as well. 

The sandstone was badly weathered. The sides of buildings that had borne the brunt of wind for centuries were carved and worn away in fantastic whorls and pits. Gravity and slow decay were crumbling the mortar, and even the stone itself. 

Till poked through the cloister, the sanctuary, and then the abbot's quarters. The entire place was enveloped in peace, quiet, and joy. But the abbot's private rooms felt best. Till moved his picnic basket there instead, out of the wind. It was easier, somehow, to think that he was in the middle of a bright, soft sward protected by a massive fortress of sacred stone. 

The monk on his voice training trip had told him what he didn't want to acknowledge, and it was difficult to even think on. Yet, he realised, he'd come all the way out to this abbey, to kind Byland abbey, to think on precisely that. He tried it out loud: "I'm not a faggot." The wind took his words and whirled them away, and his assertion felt weak amongst the immense surroundings.

The monk had mentioned that Byland was one of the most pleasant ruined monasteries he could ever visit, and it was out of the way and didn't get a lot of traffic. There were murmurs of an erotic feeling that swept over some visitors when they stood in the abbot's house. That abbot, said the monk, had been a loving, devoted, generous man. A man for men. He'd been all the things that Till privately knew he was not, and he was hoping for a wash of devotion to come over him. He just wanted to feel it, to experience it for a little while. So far, he thought, as he spread the blanket packed in the picnic basket, he'd felt nothing. Maybe he was trying too hard. 

Vaguely disappointed, mocking himself for thinking that an ancient ghost might appear to him, Till popped the cork and let the wine breathe. It was superb, and he savoured it, rolling it around his mouth and revelling in the taste. The bread and cheese in the basket were rich, delicious. Till ate slowly, almost worshipping the food, and wanting the experience to last. It had been something he'd needed to give himself. 

Finally, he put the cork back in the bottle to keep the bugs out, and lay down in the afternoon sun. Smelling the grass and the stones and the moss and lichen, he let himself drift. 

The sky was a pleasant, mild blue, and he watched the clouds float for a while, then rolled on his side. Idly running his fingers over rough stone, and enjoying the buzz, he was startled when someone sat down next to him. Assuming it was Paul, he didn't even roll over.

There was a whiff of incense, wool and wine, like a monk at communion. A warm hand came down to rest on his upper arm, and the man lay down behind him. Till knew it was a monk then. He'd figured out that there were plenty who kept each other company at night, there had been some at the abbey he'd stayed at, though they were careful to keep it quiet.

"'m not…" he moaned as the man breathed into his ear. The guilty knowledge of why he'd come to the abbey, of why he'd chosen the abbot's ruined quarters, made his stomach knot. He wanted to doze in the man's arms, maybe kiss him, and yet was afraid in the same heartbeat of his own wants. "Don't want to be a faggot."

"Few do," the monk whispered. “You are what you are and it’s complicated.”

There was breath on Till's throat, gentle fingers trailed over his jaw and neck, and then teeth closed tenderly on his ear. It was too much. Till shivered with pleasure and rolled over into the man's arms. He'd always been envious — perplexed by how easily men found each other — and now it seemed he'd been found.

He struggled to get his shirt off, knotted his hands in the woollen habit, and licked at the monk's neck. There was a taste of male: of raw sweat and pheromones, that made him keen with need. The wool was rough and soft all at once against his skin. The slightest caress of it against his bare arms, his chest, his belly, had him hard; and he gripped the man tightly. This one wasn't going to brush him off if he could help it. He'd save his regrets for later.

The monk, insistent and tender, pushed Till onto his back and kissed down his throat. The feel of stubble was new for Till -- he'd stolen kisses with men in the past, but the guilt and shame of it had prevented him from going further. Each sandpaper scrape seemed to set his nerves on fire, and he moaned miserably at his own cravings. There was a shame in having slow sex, a shame in needing to be caressed and kissed and held when he should be on top and finishing up. He'd been kicked out of bed before for taking too long, or worse yet for wasting the day lying in. The monk seemed to sense Till's fears. Sitting back, he was silhouetted against the sun; and Till couldn't see his face in the glare. 

Gently, he knelt and took Till's boots and trousers off, kissing the top of each foot and caressing the arches. He kissed sweet trails up Till's ankles, and chuckled as Till shyly hooked a leg over his arm. He planted a kiss on the scars puckered around Till's knee, then sank down next to him again.

There was a sense of tender eroticism, of acceptance, that came with the caresses, and Till relaxed more and more into his embrace. Kisses came in places he wasn't accustomed to: the nape of his neck, the thin flesh of his inner elbow, and gentle bites to his armpit that left him arching and sobbing for more. Each mouthing bite to his ear, each stroke of fingertips up the tender skin over his ribs, made him writhe a little more until he was panting for breath. 

With Till's thick bare leg bent around his hip, the monk let Till twine his fingers in his cowl, and in his rosary cord. Till pressed his face to the wool and gasped as the fingers playing behind his knee trailed higher. He ground himself against the monk's thigh, panting in desperate huffs into the cloth. Gentle fingers slid inside his mouth and he sucked at them, flicking at them and rubbing them with his tongue. When the monk slipped them between his buttocks, Till gasped in upset. 

He'd never liked anal sex. It was painful, messy, humiliating; and he loathed the idea of getting on his hands and knees and being used from behind. The monk held him tightly and whispered soothingly in his ear. The slippery fingers rubbed at him, sliding and massaging, as Till clung in fear to his lover. The monk knew just how to kiss under Till's ear and rub at him all at once, and it was good. 

Till mewled against his neck, sucked at the beads on his rosary, rubbed his cheek against cloth, as the monk gently pressed a fingertip in. It was good, warm and slick enough, and it touched parts of him that weren't accustomed to feeling pleasure. Another finger pushed into him, tender and stretching and filling, and Till groaned, "More." The sun was warm on his bare skin, and he arched his back to get a little more of the fingers and came against the monk's robe with a shuddering moan.

***

Till woke to find Paul poking him in the ribs with his toe, and blinked around in surprise.

"You fell asleep." Paul indicated the front of Till's trousers: "Looks like you had an interesting dream."

The cloth was damp and sticky with come. Till blushed.

"How was she?" Paul goaded.

Till glared at him and began gathering up his picnic supplies. 

"Is this why you wanted to be alone?"

"You never let up, do you?" Till sighed. There was a faint buzz of post-orgasmic pleasure that made him want to try it again.

Paul, realising that, as he often did, he'd gone too far, apologised all the way back to the inn. 

Till shook him off and hogged the one shower available upstairs. It wasn't until he was cleaning his teeth in front of the mirror that he saw there were love bites on his neck that hadn't been there that morning.

Paul was still apologising when Till came back to his room, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. "I didn't mean to be mean, Till. I'm sorry. Really. I should have kept my mouth shut, but I never do."

"Yes."

"But I wish I understood what I said."

Till sighed. Paul was agonisingly annoying at times, and Till was losing the last bit of patience he had. Paul was never the judgemental sort, only the talkative sort. It was better to tell Paul than anyone else. He pondered just stuffing Paul's cock into his mouth, but that seemed coarse. Instead, heart pounding at what Paul would say, he took Paul's hand and trailed his fingers up the inside of his wrist. There was a shudder of pleasure, then an instinctive recoil, and Till lowered his eyes demurely and kissed Paul's knuckles. 

They didn't talk about it at all when they went down for supper.

***

The cot was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. Paul stayed still as long as he could, but in the end he tossed and turned for hours, wincing as the frame creaked and groaned. Finally, around four o'clock, Till spoke in a sleep-slurred voice. "Paul, get your ass over here."

"What, share your bed?"

"Anything to stop the noise."

He slid in, hugging the edge, and let himself enjoy the feeling of sinking into a good, comfortable mattress. Till heaved a contented sigh and was asleep almost instantly. An hour later, Paul was still awake. In the near-dark of the room, with only the glow of moonlight to see by, Till was a huge dark presence in the bed, and shadows pooled in black and grey around him. Every breath was slow and soft, and Paul found himself looking at the shape of Till's big hand clutching the pillow.

_Till, panting with pain, lay still as they set his broken arm. He'd knocked himself on the head and bruised some ribs, and still he made no sound, no resistance, but his chest was heaving and his hair was soaked with sweat. A trickle of blood had come out Till's nose, an ugly almost-black worm that made Paul turn and vomit into a garbage can._

_The blood wouldn't stop. There were arguments about whether to give coagulants, and there was a bit of an uproar with Till sobbing something about needles and pills; and Paul stood, leaning against Schneider, waiting for it to be over and wondering why they'd been the two to take Till to A &E._

_When it was done, there were rusty smears all over Till's face and neck and chest, and his shirt was revolting. The smell of it hung in the air and Till was curled on his side, shivering and pale._

_"Sports school, huh?" said the medic. "That explains the heart murmur."_

_The what?" Paul absently picked up a spare bit of cotton and wiped at Till's face._

_"It'll likely be quick," he said over Till's head. "A heart attack is most likely, or a pulmonary embolism. You can't abuse the heart and lungs that way and expect to see sixty. 'Specially when there's cocaine and alcohol and nicotine added in." He frowned. "Not to mention the liver. The cancer rates, liver and lung, in sports school survivors is... well, it's not good." He seemed to be giving an informative lecture out of casual academic interest, not really seeing the stunned faces staring back at him. All but Till's._

_Till had been put in a cast from fingertips to elbow, and they'd driven him to the hotel. The pain meds were going strong and he was limp in the backseat of the car. Paul held him up until they could get him to bed, and when he was safely asleep, the place he'd been pressed against was cold and Paul's skin felt lonely._

Paul woke in the late morning, to find Till gone and breakfast waiting on a tray. 

Wandering through the ruins, he found Till leaning against a wall behind the cloister, eyes closed as he relished the warmth of the stone.

"Found you," Paul chirped.

"Mmm," said Till. He stood up, bits of rock and dust sticking to his shirt, and wandered off in a daze. There were myriad little nooks created by the tumbledown rubble, and he spread the blanket in one of them, right where the sun hit. Then, he poured himself a generous glass of wine and settled down with a book. 

Paul was disappointed. "What, you're just going to lie there?"

Till didn't even look up. "I told you I would," he murmured as he turned a page. 

Frustrated, Paul threw up his hands and wandered through the ruins again. After that, he went for a walk; and then he went into the pub. When he came back, Till was tipsy, and was carefully sketching bits of the Abbey. He was a surprisingly good artist, but Paul hadn't seen him do much with his talent before. 

Perhaps, Paul realised, he just hadn't been around at the right moments. Sitting down on the grass nearby, he sampled the wine and watched in silence as Till filled in shadows on a sketch of the remaining lancet windows. 

Till, still silent, was basking shirtless in the sun and rolling his shoulders, which were stiff after so much time hunched over his journal. He stretched out on the picnic blanket and quietly entertained an idle hope that the monk would revisit him. The mere thought got him hard, and he didn't really want to think it away even with Paul sitting next to him.

Till had wondered where the bed had been placed, had thought about it and paced the confines of the abbot's chamber. Now he was lying where the man had once slept. He wasn't sure if the feeling of eroticism came because he was in the man's bed, or because he was anticipating it so much.

"What are you doing, Till?" Paul, holding a wine glass, peered over at him.

Till pondered explaining, sat up and drained his glass again before saying, "I saw a ghost yesterday." He tried to say it simply as a matter of fact.

Paul stared at him. "Oh." He wasn't the judgemental sort after all. "What did it do?"

Till coughed uncomfortably. "Me, actually," he muttered.

Well, that explained the stain on the front of Till's trousers. "Really? What did she look like?"

Till blushed: a slow flush of dusky red up his throat and cheeks. "Wasn't a she," he mumbled.

"Huh?"

"Wasn't a woman," he mumbled again. "Was a monk."

Paul could barely hear him. "Did you say it was a monk?"

"Mmhmm."

"You messed around with a monk who was a ghost?"

"Mmm." Till stared at the picnic blanket.

"So when I woke you yesterday..."

"Yes, Paul." Embarrassed, Till rolled over to end the conversation. 

Curious, Paul stared at his bare, broad back for a while, and then scooted over next to him on the blanket. There was another wine bottle in the picnic basket, and Paul opened it. Filling his glass, filling Till's glass, he sipped in silence. After a long while, he tried a gentle nudge to Till's arm. "You okay?"

"Hmmph."

Leaning over, he spilled a splatter of wine on Till's thick bicep. Till shivered, and Paul watched it trickle down his back and chest. He always enjoyed baiting Till, and let another dribble fall. 

"Stop that!" Till lunged up and walked away. 

Paul followed, as he always did, and cornered Till against a crumbling stone wall. "You confessed it, so it must mean something to you." He dipped his fingers in the wine and flicked them at Till, who wiped the drops off his chest with an irritated sneer. Paul, determined to win through the defences if only to win, dipped his finger into the wine again and painted Till's lips with it.

Eyes squeezed shut, Till shrank away from him and pressed himself against the stone. Paul dipped his thumb and trailed a dribble of wine across Till's mouth, and then pressed Till's lips apart. He rubbed his thumb against Till's teeth, but Till wouldn't let him in.

When it came to sex, Till could change his mind as easily as a woman. Putting a hand down his pants and jerking his cock until it changed his mind wouldn't work. So Paul stepped closer and put his hand on Till's waist, and stroked the soft skin with his fingertips. His touch was careful, gentle, but Till shied away and drank another glass of wine in silence.

They didn't talk much that afternoon, just sat, quiet, while Till sketched and Paul daydreamed, and then the silence somehow became comfortable and easy after all. As dusk came on, Paul leaned over on impulse and pressed a kiss to Till's chapped lips. Then he gathered up the picnic things and lugged them back to the inn.

***

Paul got into bed without waiting for an invitation. The cot was unbearable, and Till was explorable. He could hear Till breathing in the dark, shallow and nervous. "Come here," Paul whispered.

There was a long pause, and Till wriggled closer. 

"Closer, baby." He was walking a tightrope, but Till obeyed and put his head on Paul's shoulder. Gently, ever so carefully, Paul slid his fingertips across the span of Till's bare shoulders, and down his back as far as he could reach. They lay in silence for a long time: Till concentrating on the sensations with his big hand curved around Paul's shoulder, and Paul wondering if and how he should go further. He tried the tender skin on the inner arm, and kissed Till's wrist. There was a faint shiver, so Paul kissed right where the break had been, and Till sighed. A press of lips to the elbow made Till sigh again, and then Paul pushed him onto his side and kissed his shoulder, the collarbones, the swell of pectorals and a tight nipple. Till flopped onto his back and put a heavy hand on Paul's neck to keep him close.

He let Till writhe. Paul wasn't always one for savouring his lovers and spending hours on foreplay, he tended to cut to the chase. But the feel of Till's big body arching and sliding against the sheets, pressing into the mattress, shivering with pleasure and with shy arousal, made him patient. When Till came, it was quiet and sweet with his face pressed to Paul's neck. The coil of tension that had wound him too tight and wracked him with tremors released, a sudden snap of the wire.

Till curled into his arms like a lonely pup, and seemed to melt against him. They lay for a long time in silence, letting their trembling muscles relax. It was barely a whisper when Till said, "Never done that before."

Paul was silent, waiting for him to continue.

"Never took my time or knew a name or got to do this after."

He hugged Till and fell asleep. When he woke, he was smushed against Till's back wondering why he was dreaming his face was pressed to a hotplate. 

Till stirred, stretched, made for the water closet without a word. He wouldn't meet Paul's eyes while he packed his duffel or while they ate breakfast. The silence was painful as they gathered their things. 

With a lunge, Paul caught him as he bent over to pick up his bag and pressed a kiss to his lips. "Where you going next?" said Paul, trying to be casual.

Till raised his eyes to Paul's in a slow, disbelieving stare. He heaved a sigh and said, "Sightseeing."

"Where?"

The corner of Till's mouth quirked and he said, "Abbey."

"Maybe I'd like to see it."

"Maybe I'd like to have a day of quiet peace; sitting on a blanket on the grass, looking at the ruins." He was planning on drinking vodka and perhaps taking some shots of the crumbling stonework against the sky.

Paul was an annoyingly blunt fellow. "I want to go too."

There was a heavy sigh, and Till closed his eyes for a moment, presumably to tamp down his instinctive reply. "Promise you'll be very quiet."


End file.
